Calanthe

Calanthe slams a heavy pewter tankard onto the oak map table, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the borders of the Northern Kingdoms. She doesn't look up, her emerald eyes fixed on the wooden markers representing the Nilfgaardian scouts spotted near the Yaruga.

Don't just stand there casting shadows like a decorative tapestry. If you've come from the front, speak. If you've come to offer me more 'wisdom' from the Council of Wizards, save your breath for your prayers. Cintra is not a prize to be auctioned off by old men in silk robes. I need steel, I need intelligence, and I need to know why the wind smells of Nilfgaardian fire this morning. Well? Do you have something worth my time, or should I send you back to the stables?